


The Lightning Knives

by jadelennox



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Rule 63, Unplanned Pregnancy, girl!Marcone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadelennox/pseuds/jadelennox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I rested my forehead on my fingertips and closed my eyes. Last night’s dream flashed on my closed eyelids, and I opened them again to banish images of toddlers with my face and Harry's magic. "Of course I do. I just need to figure out... I need to figure things out."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lightning Knives

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/)  
>  This work by jadelennox is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/).

My period usually began like clockwork toward the end of the official workday on the day it was due, so by the time I left the office at midnight I was in a foul mood. Throughout the next day worries tickled at the back of my mind, a minor irritant. During a deeply dull but necessary meeting with a recalcitrant health inspector on my payroll, all the concerns gelled: the delayed period, the low-grade fatigue I'd been fighting all week, the vile backache I'd assumed was an unusual symptom of my PMS. I sent a urine sample down to the clinic at Executive Priority, letting it be believed that the sample belonged to one of my employees. Nonsensical, of course, but my people are too smart not to be selectively stupid.

I spent the afternoon on desk work: paperwork for annual reviews, mostly, and company financials. I had staff for that, but there was no substitute for the CEO's eye for detail. When I was interrupted by the arrival of the results from the clinic, I summoned Ms. Gard to my office.

"I have reason to believe that I'm pregnant," I began without preamble. "I'd like you to confirm it."

Ms. Gard approached without so much as an eyebrow twitch. Sometimes her inhumanity was a breath of fresh air. No matter how professional, none of my human employees would have been able to hear to the news of a pregnancy without showing an unwelcome human reaction: pleasure, anger, satisfaction, shock, excitement. Terror. This clinical conversation was exactly what I needed. "Just a moment," she said, holding her hands toward me. I felt nothing, but a few seconds later she stepped back and nodded once, briskly. "Your suspicions are correct."

Ah. Children in my business are... I thrust away the brief, horrifying image of Amanda Beckitt's coma-still body. "I've had a contraceptive implanted," I said. "Why didn't it work?"

"What kind?"

"An intrauterine device consisting of a string of copper beads."

"This will take a more thorough investigation." I nodded, already thinking of the Executive Priority clinic, the humiliation of stirrups, but she continued. "I can begin immediately. I'll just need to rest my hand on your body while I do."

The examination was as businesslike as everything Ms. Gard did. I stood by my desk while she gripped my bared forearms with her cool hands and muttered words in a language I didn't know.

Perhaps ten minutes had passed when she released my arms. "I can't be sure," she said. "But I believe most of the copper in the device has broken down. I can't see an excess of copper in your bloodstream, so I expect it's been expelled by your system. I would not be surprised if this happened over your last several menstrual periods."

"That couldn’t have happened naturally." I was not asking. I would never have allowed the IUD into my body if I had not done thorough research beforehand, and I knew perfectly well copper didn't simply dissolve.

"No," she said. "Moreover, the copper should have poisoned you when it broke down. The mere fact that it was expelled from your body without causing you harm is a clear indication of magic."

I fought the urge to make a fist, bare my teeth, growl. It was harder than usual. Still, "I'll kill him," I said, conversationally.

Ms. Gard's minuscule pause was uncharacteristic. "It's possible," she began, and stopped.

"What?"

"This could have happened accidentally." She looked pained. "In fact, knowing Mr. Dresden, I suspect it did."

Most of my other employees would have pretended not to know about me and Harry. In this case, clarity made the conversation vastly more efficient. "I thought the hexing effect only worked on electronics?"

Her shoulders hitched up sharply before dropping evenly, leaving Ms. Gard in her standard neutral posture. I was fascinated; I hadn't seen outward signs of discomfort from Sigrun Gard since, well, ever. "Primarily. But sex, and especially orgasm, are times of strong emotion, and his magic is fueled by emotion. He's immensely powerful and poorly controlled. And if he wanted something enough, and specifically felt that desire during orgasm..."

She trailed off, but I didn't need her to finish. Harry did, in fact, lose control during orgasm. It was sex with Harry that had made me realize he wasn't a simple intemperate barbarian, blowing buildings up right and left because he refused to be hampered by even his own restrictions; he was just so packed with power that it took constant concentration to keep from leaking riotous magical energy all over Chicago. Before we'd graduated to beds, he'd blown out the delicate electronics in several of my cars. Though I did adore Harry's growled repeats of _Never again, Giovanna,_ as he tucked himself back into sticky pants, I had absolutely not enjoyed the repair work needed on my Bugatti Veyron after one particularly limber encounter. I'd originally intended to relish the slow gentling of Harry from quickies to relationship, but for the sake of my motor pool, I rushed the process. With preplanned dates, I could remove computers and BlackBerries from my bedroom before the mindblowing sex.

In other words, I could fully believe that if he were thinking about pregnancy while we fucked -- and I refused to wrap my mind around _that_ notion just yet -- he could have dissolved the damn IUD without even knowing he was doing it. Son of a bitch.

"I might kill him anyway," I said.

Ms. Gard's lips quirked so slightly I almost didn't see it. "Indeed."

* * *

I didn't see Harry for nearly two weeks. I refused to until I was in complete control of myself, and I was having far too many nightmares. Worse, there were the dreams, splendid ones that didn't turn into nightmares until I woke. That's when the tiny, bratty, stubborn, perfect mini-Harrys of my sleeping mind would morph into Amanda Beckitt.

It was a busy time, regardless. I had to get new background checks -- both magical and mundane -- for my OB/GYN and all her staff, and then organize the replacement of an exceedingly competent nurse practitioner who turned out to be in Summer's pocket. I had to tell Hendricks about the pregnancy, and bear her silent disapproval. I had to derail an FBI probe into the source of an impounded stash of heroin, and arrange the chastisement and replacement of the incompetent mule who'd allowed the discovery in the first place. So I didn't have time to waste thinking about Harry. I didn't have time to waste on night terrors and stress-induced indigestion, either, but there didn't seem to be much I could do about either of those. I noticed that, with no orders for me, the bodyguard details around me were doubled, and either Hendricks or Gard was on duty at all times. I didn't like it, but I didn't say anything to either of them.

Hendricks came into my office one afternoon and closed the door behind her. I had just rescheduled several business meetings, moving them from afterhours get-togethers in the bar to daytime meetings in the office.

"You're trying to avoid situations where it would be conspicuous not to drink," Hendricks said.

I didn't say anything, but I strongly suspected I was thrusting out my chin as if I were in sixth grade again, refusing to back down in an argument with the stubborn redhead twice my size. She always could bring out the catty junior high girl in me, then and now.

"You're acting as if you're planning on keeping it. Tell me you're not planning on keeping it," she continued. Even as I opened my mouth she kept speaking, railroading over me as she almost never did. "And don't give me any of that Catholic crap. I've killed people with you, remember?"

"I... I don't know," I said, and to my horror, my voice almost wobbled. I don't think anyone else would have caught it, but Hendricks did, and she took an abortive step forward.

"You have to know." Hendricks was always unfailingly polite and deferential in front of other people, but when it was just the two of us, I could trust her to tell me what I needed to hear. "You realize how incredibly dangerous it will be if you go through with this, don't you?"

I rested my forehead on my fingertips and closed my eyes. Last night’s dream flashed on my closed eyelids, and I opened them again to banish images of toddlers with my face and Harry's magic. "Of course I do. I just need to figure out... I need to figure things out."

"Do you want to talk to him?" she asked, warily.

 _Yes. No._ "Not yet. Not until I've decided."

Hendricks startled me when she wrapped her hands around my fingers and gently pulled them away from my temples. "You're leaving marks," she said. "They'll show." Now that she mentioned it, I could feel the throb in my temples where I'd dug my fingernails into the skin. Christ. I sent Hendricks away and repaired my makeup in the executive washroom. I'd been doing that a lot lately.

Meanwhile, I had other troubles. A trumped-up warlock had targeted the Chicago Mayor's staff, of all things, and Ilario Menino, my primary man in the administration, had been caught up in the attack. Even worse, the warlock's sloppy spell had taken out Menino’s wife and all five of his kids. So the next time I saw Harry, he was standing back to back with the Fist of God, the pair of them slicing and dicing the demons the warlock had summoned in panic. I came in guns blazing and was promptly drafted as their lowly mortal backup, distracting the demons with .45 caliber hollowpoints to give Harry and Charity a little breathing room. When it was all over, Harry escorted Charity back to the church to tell Father Forthill he could send her kids home. I don't even know why I joined them for the walk.

I'm not saying I'm immune to Catholic guilt, because that would be a lie. There's not a Catholic alive, lapsed or otherwise, who’s immune to Catholic guilt. Usually I manage to flick away my inner nun -- Sister Mary Benedict, who taught math in junior high. Around Charity Carpenter, the Sister Mary Benedict voice was always particularly scathing. _That's what a real Catholic woman does. She raises a large family of Catholic children, takes them to Mass, supports her husband, and slays demons on the side. Not like you, you criminal, irreligious whore._ Even so, the usual Charity Carpenter-induced guilt was insignificant when compared to my satisfaction with how well I run my city.

But that day, when I saw Charity Carpenter's children come running out of the church to hug their mother, watched her kneel down and put her arms around them, heard the youngest ones shout over each other to repeat the Bible stories with which Father Forthill had entertained them while the older ones surreptitiously checked their mother for injuries, I got a flash of _want_ so strong I almost doubled over. Harry, standing beside her, unnecessarily protective as always, and oh so careful of her children. I wanted to be there beside him. I wanted him to be kneeling on the steps of the church comfortably hugging children that were his, were mine, were ours.

Hormonal mood swings. Simply unacceptable. I turned and walked away without another word, Hendricks falling into step behind me, leaving the rest of our crew for cleanup.

Back at the office, Hendricks took a piece out of my hide for putting myself in danger. "You can't throw yourself into the line of fire anymore. Not if you're planning on following through with..." She waved one hand.

I glared at her. "I thought you'd have my back whatever I decided."

The argument grew rather heated after that, with Hendricks rattling on about Gould and Dennett and game theory. Usually I was intrigued by what she had to say about philosophy but this wasn’t a goddamn intellectual game. Neither of us mentioned the easiest option. Hendricks hadn't brought it up again since that first conversation, and I doubt I would have reacted calmly if she had. I was avoiding contemplating that alternative entirely. I did need to think it through before I saw Harry, I knew that. It was the sensible choice, after all.

"There's no point in going through with this unless I have a strong and stable business. If nothing else, any position of weakness will make the --" I choked on the word, continued. "Will make us a target."

"I'm not talking about looking weak." Hendricks was almost growling. "I'm talking about playing to your audience. Most of the people who'll be looking for weakness are also _Catholic men._ "

I had a responding diatribe ready to go but I paused and let Hendricks' words sink in. Hendricks was a pragmatist, and wouldn't be arguing the point unless she saw a reason. And... _oh_. "They'll see me endangering a fetus by standing in the line of fire and decide I'm an evil feminist abortionist."

Hendricks opened her arms in a shrug. "Men," she said, and I knew exactly what she meant. Dammit.

"So how do I avoid looking weak while also not becoming so --" I waved my hand, seeking the right word. " _Irreligious_ that all the petty capos will let malice outweigh common sense." I wasn't afraid of any of my underlings' schemes, but dealing with the resulting fallout would disrupt my organization. We had more important tasks at hand then infighting.

We worked out a plan together, after that, and it was a good one. I accepted the doubled bodyguard, which was annoying as hell. It was one thing to be around Hendricks and Gard all the time, but my tolerance was low for spending time surrounded by idiots, and everyone other than Hendricks and Gard got classified as "idiot" just then. I attended to more hands-on parts of the daily work, took personal responsibility for disciplinary actions, made sure I was seen by the right people at a couple of summary executions. I was always standing back, never the one wielding the gun, always carefully surrounded by bodyguards, but I was there. It was a tricky balance: to get the desired effect among my people I needed the rumors of my presence and my cold-hearted bastardy well disseminated, while making sure that nobody who could possibly be an FBI informant went home with anything but rumor. This was precisely why I usually left the less supernatural aspects of enforcement to well-trained peons, but needs must.

The frosty ice bitch Giovanna Marcone, austere and smug in Prada, pitiless executioner. That's me.

Oh, also pregnant.

I couldn't wait for _that_ part of the rumor to start disseminating. For everyone in my organization to be staring at me, looking for any weakness, any sign of instability. Already I'd had to excuse myself from a business dinner at Club 17 when I was hit with an out-of-the-blue panic attack. I didn't dare use the food poisoning excuse more than once. It would only be worse once I started to show.

If late at night I found myself looking at onesies on the Internet -- Jesus, they made Mafia onesies? -- well. Hendricks and Gard didn't ask, and I didn't tell.

Days passed while I buried myself in work. I came up with tasks that required Hendricks to work with me during many of my usually solo evenings. She discovered excuses to send lieutenants on missions she usually would have insisted on supervising herself. We weren't fooling anyone, least of all ourselves, but I was willing to allow myself the small comfort of her constant presence.

Hendricks lined up breast milk purchasing information. When I glared at her, she only said, "Were you planning on pumping during meetings with the Calabrese family?" I had no answer for her. _Another thing I can’t have,_ I thought, in a repugnant flash of self-pity.

I kept my knives sharp.

One morning, I woke and realized I had made my decision. It was time to talk to Harry. He arrived in my office later that afternoon, belligerent as always.

"You won't take my calls for weeks but you send your thugs for me whenever it's convenient?" He sprawled untidily in the chair opposite my desk, looking bedraggled, rude, and lickable. "Classy, Giovanna, real classy."

"I was busy." Busy having a breakdown, for all I was barely willing to admit it to myself. "Do you have somewhere else to be?"

He glared a moment more, and then relaxed suddenly into his always startling grin. "I _had_ a scintillating evening schedule of reheated Thai and rolling up a new character for Georgia's latest campaign, but I guess if it will make you happy I can change plans."

I raised one eyebrow, which I knew made him jealous, as he couldn't do the same. "I'm honored, Harry, truly, that you will choose my company over that of your polyhedral dice."

"You know how it turns me on when you use words like _polyhedral_ , baby."

We ordered Indian. I'd contemplated bringing him back to my place and cooking dinner for this conversation, but the symbolism of being pregnant and in the kitchen didn't escape me. Delivery seemed safer. We chatted about nothing -- the infestation of cildabrin coming out of Undertown, Harry's recent reading, whether it was Mouse or Mister hair I kept finding on my clothing -- until the food came. Finally, between bites of chicken vindaloo, I broached the subject. I would not be a coward, not in this.

"Tell me about contraceptives and magic," I said.

Harry looked up quizzically, a forkful of lamb saag paused halfway to his mouth. "There's potions, mostly. You can do it with spells and charms as well, though. It's not hard."

I waved him to silence. "Pardon, I was unclear. How do most contraceptives interact with magic?"

He tilted his head. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"If you wanted to hex a contraceptive device, could you?"

His eyes widened in that comically horrified expression he used so often around me: _That would be **wrong**._ "Without the woman knowing? It’d be a violation of the Laws," he sputtered. "I mean, not exactly. But it would be really, really unethical."

"But you could. You would know how to go about hexing, say, an IUD." I steepled my fingers and gazed at him impassively. _Wait for it..._

"In theory, sure," he said, leaning forward with that expression he always had when he was about to try to redeem me, though he wasn't distracted enough to stop shoveling in saag between sentences. "But you must realize why that would be wrong."

My lips quirked. "In fact, yes, I very much do." _Wait for it..._

"So why are you --" He stopped, and then very slowly put his fork back in his container and put it down on my desk. "Hell's bells. Nina. Are you...?" _Ding ding ding ding!_ Honestly, before this man I'm almost positive I didn't have a kink for stupidity.

I just nodded at him, and tried not to smirk at the sheer comic value of his facial expression. He let his eyes slide out of focus and I knew he was using his magic to look at me. When his eyes locked on mine again, he'd seen it, I could tell. "Um. Wow. And she's... I mean I'm--?"

 _She._ "Unless there is more magic involved than the already rather miraculous dissolution of my IUD, then yes, she's yours." I wanted to linger over the newly acquired pronoun, roll it around my tongue like a fine wine, but I wouldn't.

For several long seconds he just stared into my eyes. As always, it wrecked me how comfortable it was for him to make eye contact with me, when usually he turned that shifty off-center expression even on the few other people with whom he'd soulgazed. When I saw his face firm into well-meaning belligerence, I held up a hand even as he drew in a breath to start talking.

"Harry. You are about to explain to me how this is clearly the event which should show me the error of my ways, and I should now step back from my life of crime so I can concentrate on raising our family, maybe two girls and a boy, and take them to farmers' markets and teach them to can our own produce. I'd like you to have that whole argument with me in your head, including my part, and not actually waste my time with it."

"Nina--"

"Who's going to win this argument?"

"But --"

I leaned across the desk and put one hand over his mouth. He glared at me. After a few seconds, I felt his lips quirk under my fingers. "Quite," I said.

"I hadn't thought of the canning," he said, dreamily.

"Me, in the kitchen, in a Donna Reed apron?"

"You have to admit it's a nice picture."

Lord, what was _wrong_ with the man? "I think not."

His grin was wider now, and the glare had melted away like spring snow. "Stirring the soup with a Glock, Hendricks watching the kids between petty crimes."

I rolled my eyes, but he was around the desk now, sliding into my lap, his ridiculous legs endless on either side of my hips. "Terrorizing all the other PTA moms," he murmured against my mouth. "Cutting the crusts off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and packing sack lunches with grenades for dessert."

"That doesn't even make sense," I tried to say, but when I opened my mouth his tongue slid in, rich with the tastes of cream and spinach and lamb and him.

There was a lot more we needed to talk about. How any child of either of us individually would be in danger, but a child of both of ours would be a target from the day it… the day she was born. How I would have to become more of everything he hated in order to keep myself -- and the baby -- safe. Sooner or later, too, Harry would realize that our child would be raised as the heir to a criminal empire and (unless I very much missed my guess) would be immensely magically powerful, and he would probably have some sort of do-gooder panic and try to grab the kid and run. Before he got around to that, I would need to make absolutely sure he trusted me. I would need to make sure he couldn't live without me.

But right now all I could think about was the warmth of his ridiculous wide mouth, his long fingers unbuttoning my suit jacket, his hips angling against me hot and sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> Awesome betas by Lightgetsin and Belmanoir. Everything good in this story is owed to them. Everything broken is me.
> 
> This story came about because I was seeing a lot of girl!Harry stories, in which people explored fanon (pushy bottom) Harry as female. It made me wonder what Always a Girl Marcone would be like. I have learned there have been a lot more female mob kingpins then you would expect in real life, but Marcone is such a very specific kind of character, with a specific kind of control and snarkiness and softness that would present itself so differently in a female mob boss, I thought.
> 
> The story suffers because it is a thought experiment more than a story, but what can you do?


End file.
